Afterimage
by Pink Cloud Assembly
Summary: This was once a place I came to find solace, but now—blackened by crumpled, ink-soaked pieces of paper—I only find confusion.


Afterimage

By: Pink Cloud Assembly

_A/N: Thanks to Tauni and Willowfly. If it weren't for them I'd probably never get my thoughts down onto paper.  
_

_"All changes are more or less tinged with melancholy, for what we are leaving behind is part of ourselves. " - Amelia Barr._

* * *

My stomach burbles nervously as I make my way into the lair, and I find myself standing in the dark, lonely entry way; shivering, but not from the cold. "Hello?" I call out, dusting the top of my hair off. I always manage to have a fine collection of leaves in my hair by the time I make it in. "Anyone home?"

Leo always picks out the pieces I've missed and we share a laugh, because it's the perfect way to break the ice. It never had to be broken before, but things have changed over the past couple of years.

"Is it Friday already?" a familiar voice greets me from within the darkness.

"It is," I report, squinting. A light clicks on and reveals Leo standing a few feet away. One quick glance at the couch tells me he's been napping. He smiles and I smile back. It's funny, but the thought of Leo 'slowing down', even as he ages, has always been laughable.

"Must've lost track of time," he grins, walking out from around the couch and closer to me. Any concerns I had had for his health are quickly forgotten when his arms, still as strong as the day I met him, wrap around my shoulders.

The hug is quick and a bit awkward, but we're the ones making it that way. This visit isn't exactly under the best of circumstances.

"It's cold out," he comments idly, pulling away and rubbing his arms.

"It is," I agree. "How are you?"

He pauses and his head drops and tilts in a half-nod—it's the hesitant nod of someone who only wants to say that they're listening, and nothing more. "I've been okay," he lies. He's never liked to worry us.

"That's great, Leo," I lie right back. "I've been good, too."

"How's Casey been?"

Brushing my hair back, I sigh. "He's... Casey."

His mouth pulls into a wide, knowing sort of grin, and it's only then that I realize how faded his mask is. I don't know how I could have missed it, and assume it must have happened over a period of time. It fits him in a way, the soft, pale blue outlining his dark, tired eyes.

"So," he clears his throat. "How'd everything go? Sorry I couldn't make it."

I wave my hand to dismiss him. It did bug me a little—having complete strangers moving and packing my personal belongings. One would think I'd be more comfortable _without_ Mikey and Raph playing "keep away" with my china, but I was a total wreck. I understand, though. Things have changed. Donnie just can't be left alone.

"It went good, the truck's full to bursting."

"Are you going to take anything from your shop?"

We talked about it before, Casey and I, and ultimately decided that if Shadow wanted it, she could have it. I've wanted to keep my father's things in the family, so I had hoped she would agree.

"Are you kidding?" I smirk. "Casey already insists on bringing everything he's ever come into contact with!"

"Like what?" Leo cocks a brow.

I mimic his expression, but smirk and begin to tick my fingers off one by one. "Hockey sticks, baseball bats, ice skates—"

"Ice skates?" he nearly laughs. "How is he going to use ice skates? Doesn't he have a bad leg?"

I shake my head and throw my hands up into the air. "That's what I said!"

Glancing around, I notice a long table filled with old newspapers and a cup of tea. Looks as though he's been keeping busy.

"Sounds like Casey," he chuckles. He pauses and folds his arms over his chest, glancing away. "Has... Raph been by?"

"Yes," I say, and he physically relaxes. Raph isn't as young as he once was, either, but like Casey, refuses to admit it. "He and Casey are supposed to spend the night together. I'll try to talk him into coming home."

"That'd be great."

I nod. "How's Donnie?"

"About the same."

"No changes?"

"Talks less, writes more," he shrugs. "I can't tell what he's working on, but he says it's important."

"Well, do you ever ask?" I ask, thinking that maybe I sound a little defensive, though I'm not sure why. "Sometimes he tells me things."

"Actually, no," he sounds surprised. "I guess I hadn't thought of it."

I can understand. Donnie hasn't been the easiest person to work with lately.

"Do you think he remembers what today is?"

"Honestly?" He shifts his jaw a bit. "I don't know. I've told him, but I can never really tell what gets through and what doesn't."

"Is he awake?"

"Yeah," he gestures to Master Splinter's room. "He should be, anyway. He keeps odd hours lately."

"Lately?" I smile sadly. Don's kept odd hours for as long as I've known him.

He smiles back, just as sadly. "Okay, more odd than usual."

"Can I talk to him?"

"Yeah, sure. I don't know how talkative he's going to be, though. He's gotten pretty upset the last few times I've brought him food."

"Great, thanks."

We move out of the entry way and make our way to Splinter's room. We come to a stop in front of the doors and Leo slowly pulls them open, motioning for me to enter quickly.

I step into the little room, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the lighting. The room has always been large, but looks much smaller with the scraps of paper taped to the walls. Some appear to be pages from books, others are ones Don's written on. There are books on tables and bedsheets draped over Splinter's old furniture, most likely to keep Don from writing on them. He's written on everything else so far; the paper, the books, the walls, the floor, even himself. Behind me, Leo slides the paper doors shut. In the faint glow of the candlelight, I'm suddenly more alone than I've felt in years.

This was once a place I came to find solace, but now—blackened by crumpled, ink-soaked pieces of paper—I only find confusion. If I concentrate hard, I can still feel Splinter's presence, but with every year that passes, it grows fainter and fainter.

"Donnie?" I call out, nearly jumping at the sound of my own voice. Shutting my eyes and laying a hand on my chest to steady my heart, I smile at my foolishness.

The room is quiet but not peaceful, rather restless and dim; from here I can make out the bookshelf. Over the years, Splinter had collected enough books to make a fine collection. But now books are missing, their naked spines littering the floor.

"Don?" I say again. He isn't at the desk or in the bed.

The room is different from his old room, still upstairs; there is no computer here, no test tubes or beakers, and certainly no scraps of metal. Only books and candles, pens and pencils. There are still signs of Splinter's existence here, but you have to look hard; Leo's spent a great deal of time trying to preserve his belongings.

A shadow appears against the back wall and I stop, watching. I can hear the faint scribbling of a pencil, and, taking care to step around the paper minefield of his work, I make my way to the bed.

I find him sitting in a circle of crumpled paper, randomly scrawling this or that on any given piece at any given time. I lower myself onto the edge of the bed. "Hi."

Not once does he look up at me—I've come to expect this. This has never been an empty room, but I've come to realise it may as well be. A part of me truly wants to believe he enjoys and maybe even expects my visits, but another part of me isn't sure he even knows I'm here sometimes.

"Who are you?" he asks.

I blink and sit up straight, frowning. "It's April."

"April never comes alone," he informs me. "Casey always comes with her. He brings magazines. You aren't April."

"But I am," I insist. "Casey's couldn't make it today, but he'll visit you tomorrow."

He appears to accept this answer and goes back to working. After nearly five minutes, he mutters, "I'm almost finished."

"You're almost finished?" I ask excitedly. He first began working on this project seven years ago, so to hear him say he's almost finished is very surprising. I don't think any of us expected him to ever finish it. "This is all one project?"

"Yes," he answers. "It took longer than I first thought."

"How long will it take to build?" for this question I receive no answer, so I try a new question. "What exactly_ is_ it?"

He mumbles something but I can't make it out.

"What?"

"Vast-atom smashing." he presses a finger to the page, searching for something. I don't understand what, though, the page is relatively empty.

"Atom smashing?" The only symbols I can make out are a few numbers, '∴' and '⊃'. They look familiar, but I can't place their origins.

"Time tunnel. These are equations. Blueprints."

"You're making a time tunnel?" Now that I look closer, I recognize the '∴'. He's writing in mathematical shorthand, meaning 'therefore' and 'is a subset of'.

"It's theoretically possible," he defensively informs me. "The Russians claim to have made one."

"But what—"

"Some theories suggest that suitable geometries of space-time might allow time travel."

"Why are you working on equations for a time tunnel?"

He pauses for a moment, as if contemplating answering me, and then returns to his work.

"If I can go back, I can fix it."

"Fix it?" Fix what, I wonder? What is he referring to? Stop himself from getting sick? There wasn't one singular event that changed their lives so drastically—there were a lot of things that happened over a long period of time. I don't know if he's aware of that anymore. "Donnie, you can't change what happen—"

"I can fix it!" he shouts, his head shooting up. He stares into my eyes, and repeats in a calmer voice, "I can."

The door opens and Leo pokes his head in, a worried expression on his face. I wave to him that everything's fine, and he eventually slides the door shut again.

"Leo tells me you aren't sleeping so well," I say, spotting a tray of food and drink on the desk.

"That's right," he answers, reaching for a new book."Mikey's been keeping me up lately. He never listens when I ask him to turn the volume on the TV down. He doesn't understand how important this is I guess."

"I see."

Michelangelo's been dead for nearly nine years now.

"Other than that, how have you been?"

He tears a page from a book and flattens it out in front of him. "Good."

"That's good," I say back, pity coating my voice.

"It's hard to concentrate, even when Mikey listens to me." he sits up and inspects a jumble of words written on his leg, then starts copying them onto a sheet of paper. "Leo and Raph got into another fight."

"They did?" I tilt my head, leaving the bed to crouch next to him. But didn't Leo just ask if Raph had stopped by? "When?"

He doesn't answer.

Raphael hasn't been home in almost two weeks.

I can never tell how long my visits are, it's as though time here either goes far too quickly or not fast enough. "Do you know what today is?"

"No." Something in the way he says it makes me think he does. "I haven't had time to keep track of dates," he replies off handedly.

"That's understandable. Do you remember the last time I visited?"

He continues to work, ignoring me.

I could tell him that Michelangelo is dead, that Raphael is out destroying himself, and that Leonardo is hurting badly, but I don't think that he'd understand. The glimpses of the old Don I get are so fleeting that sometimes I'm not sure if I'm imagining them or if they really still exist.

It kills me to know that modern medicine could have helped destroy or at least delay whatever's taking hold of his mind. We all knew that it would have been impossible, but knowing that I didn't even try...

Suddenly, I feel ancient. I long for the open blue sky and the soft green grass, for the garden I've always wanted, for the barn where Casey will spend hours cursing and shouting at everything he can't fix, and love every minute of it.

It's unfair for me to think that my friendship with the guys has kept me in the city, but a part of me that's ashamed to admit it thinks that was one of the biggest reasons I stayed. I don't regret any of it, but I think it's time to move on.

"Casey and I are going away for a while."

My stomach tightens as I watch him, waiting for his body to tense or for the pencil to stop moving. Donatello may be ill, and he may be confused at times, but he isn't stupid. I think he knows that Casey and I may never come back.

"We aren't getting any younger, you know," I chuckle, despite the tears working at the corners of my eyes. "The city is no place for an old woman like me."

Don shyly raises his eyes to meet mine, inspecting my grayed hair and wrinkled face. His eyes are wide and curious like a newborn; it's as if he hasn't seen me in years. Then again, maybe he hasn't. A solemn expression of understanding pales his face as he looks down to my wrinkled, arthritic hands.

"Shadow will still come visit."

He seeks out his own hands now, turning them over with a curious eye. This lasts for only a second before he grabs the pencil again. "Shadow hates it here."

"What? How can you say that? Shadow loves you guys."

"She doesn't like it when Raph and Leo fight."

"_Nobody_ likes it when Raph and Leo fight," I remind him. "They've always fought, Don."

"I don't like it when she cries."

Shadow hasn't cried over Leo and Raph fighting since she was a small child, and even then it was a rare thing.

"How old is Shadow?"

He opens his mouth to respond, and then shuts it, his head tilting. "I don't remember."

"Shadow is a young woman now," I tell him. "Remember? She visited you a few weeks ago."

"Oh," he says, sounding defeated. "That's right."

These days it's hard to tell if he's confused or mixing the past with the present up. Either scenario is absolutely heart wrenching, because sometimes there just isn't any talking sense into him.

We sit in silence then, him switching papers around and reviewing notes scribbled on his arms and legs and even the floor; me trying to picture him how he was years ago.

It's almost eerie in a way, to see him sitting here obsessing over something I don't even think he understands. It's almost as if he's dead; because the Don I know is certainly gone.

I blame myself for not doing anything.

The changes were gradual and didn't become alarming until later. When he could no longer remember the incident that cause Michelangelo's death, and began asking what was taking him so long to pick up the pizza, we all knew things were steadily going downhill. None of us could have imagined what he'd be like years later.

I find myself reaching out to him, but I stop and recoil my hand. Something inside tells me to stop. "I should be going."

It takes everything I have to get to my feet. My knees ache in protest, but rather than quickly hurry to the door I linger around for a second more, hoping he might ask that I stay just a bit longer. I remember a time when we would talk for hours on end about everything and nothing at the same time. Our talks now are fragmented pieces of now and then.

Swallowing the lump in my throat I turn my back to him, walking to the door and grabbing the handle. "Bye Donnie," I say quietly, exiting the room.

I turn briefly, just able to make out the top of his head before he ducks down again, hunched over paper, and resumes writing.


End file.
